


What Christmas Means to Me

by Astrophilla, sunshinewinchesters



Series: Destiel Christmas Advent Calendar 2015 [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (I can't believe that's a tag oh no), 25 Days of Christmas, 25 Days of Destiel Christmas, Angst, Caretaker Castiel, Christmas, Christmas Angst, Comforting Castiel, Destiel Advent Calendar 2015, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5360867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrophilla/pseuds/Astrophilla, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinewinchesters/pseuds/sunshinewinchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean returns home after a rough hunt on Christmas day to find Castiel waiting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Christmas Means to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written by sunshinewinchesters  
> Beta'd by Astrophilla
> 
> Type: Canonverse AU (circa season nine), established Castiel/Dean
> 
> **The fifth installation of our Destiel Advent Calendar!**

It takes Dean several tries to jam the key in the lock, twisting it until he hears the click, and he’s pretty sure it’s because his hands are shaking. Damn the bunker for having so many deadbolts, he thinks as he misses the last one once again. He just wants to get inside, stumble over to his bed, and sleep right then and there for the rest of forever. The truth of it is, he’s _tired_. He’s tired of four hours of sleep followed by some grueling hunt, where he’s drained physically and emotionally every time. He’s tired of waking up every day to kill, tired of coming home and just wanting to drink and sleep and forget. But mostly he’s tired of responsibility weighing down his shoulders with every life-or-death decision he makes, each bullet fired, each innocent he could have saved. Every time he shoves all that pent-up self loathing and guilt into the back of his head, cramming it down and letting it fester for months on end. It’s always a race, to see who will give out first: either his will to repress all the shit burdening him from every hunt, or the need to acknowledge and accept that baggage and deal with it in a way he so rarely ever does. 

He’s been able to keep it up for awhile now, by sheer force of will. After each hunt, when he knows there is just so much more blood on his hands, an increasing number of names to a growing list of people he’s killed, he just stuffs all of those feelings associated with it into a box and refuses to acknowledge its constant itching at the edge of his mind for as long as possible. He always breaks at some point, and months worth of shit comes flooding forth, all hell breaking loose and leaving him to deal with the aftermath, and with a heavy feeling of certainty in his gut, Dean knows that today will be one of those days. It might be the fact that Cas and Sam aren’t here to remind him of the good in the world, the good in _him_ , or maybe it’s the fact that it’s Christmas and all he’s got to keep him company is this immense guilt and hatred, rising to the surface and threatening to take over at any minute. They’re both in Heaven right now, searching for a weapon “devised by God” to take out the next creature-of-the-day, but they said they would be back in time for the new year. Hopefully after he’s had his emotional breakdown, because that’s not something he wants either of them to see. 

He finally gets the door open and pushes his way in, fingers trembling as he kicks it shut and re-locks the deadbolts. His bag feels too heavy in his hands, weighed down with all of the weapons with which he kills on a daily basis, and while it’s usually a solid, reassuring weight, right now it feels condemning. Everything feels like it’s in slow motion as he heads down the stairs, dropping his bag to the side and dragging his feet towards the direction of his room. “Dean.” A deep, rumbly voice hums, and the hunter looks up to see Cas rising from his chair and heading over. The angel has that small smile on his lips, the one that is more in his eyes than anywhere else, but it melts away when he sees Dean’s face, his eyebrows pulling together, creasing in worry. Dean wants to greet him as joyfully as usual, with a kiss and an exuberant “Heya, Cas!” but the lead in his veins doesn’t allow him to. Something in his chest loosens at the sight of the angel, like a vice has slackened and he can breathe a little easier, all because Cas is here, he’s actually here, as if somehow he just _knew_. By the look in his eyes, all concern and understanding, he knows exactly what’s wrong. It’s part of their tacit understanding of one another, a whole world of silent messages and emotions passed back and forth through eye contact alone. Dean has a feeling Cas understands him better when he doesn’t try and put things into words, anyways.

Castiel doesn’t say anything. He strides forward, opening up his arms, and Dean can’t stop himself from collapsing into them, burying his face against the angel’s neck and wrapping his arms tight around his waist. Castiel’s hands come up and one cradles the hunter’s face, the other slipping through his hair as he murmurs unintelligible, quiet, soothing sounds in his ear. The hunter closes his eyes and sags against him, fingers knotting in his trenchcoat as he breathes deeply in that distinctly heady, comfortingly familiar scent of Cas. They stand there for an immeasurable amount of time, and Dean just clings to his angel while he rocks them gently, carding his hand through Dean’s hair, just letting Dean feel Cas holding him, letting it sink in that he isn’t alone. There’s something sacred about this, something undeniably intimate, and the emptiness inside Dean craves it, craves how it fills him up. Castiel pulls back just enough to look at him, his arms now winding around Dean, like he too can’t allow for any space between them, not now. His eyes are soft and his touch gentle as he reaches up to probe at Dean’s bloodied, swollen lip, then trails his fingers up to dab carefully at the cut on Dean’s scalp, which has left sticky blood matting his hair to his skull. “You’re bleeding,” Cas says, voice hushed. Dean lets out a laugh that might be a sob, he’s not sure, and squeezes him closer. “Let me take care of you.”

There’s nothing more that Dean wants, than to just let Cas tend to his wounds, to hold him and kiss him and mumble those inappropriately adoring things in his ear, but he can’t. Not with all the shit he’s done, with all the blood on his hands and the blackness in his heart. He’s undeserving, and there’s no way he can accept Cas’ kindness when he knows this. Everything in his body aches for sleep though, aches for Cas’ gentle touch, for the warmth of his mouth pressed to Deans, for the sound of his voice and the weight of him bundled against Dean’s chest. He wants it so bad, needs Cas on a visceral level, but how can he allow himself to have that, have him, when he’s poison? When he’s done everything he has? Dean shakes his head, blinking back the tears he feels burning in his eyes. Cas gives him a bewildered, concerned look, brow furrowed, and the hunter knows he needs to give an explanation, needs to say something so Cas understands, but his throat feels tight and clogged with emotion and he can’t choke the words out. Cas guides him to his room, passing Sam’s on the way so Dean can see his brother is asleep in bed, safe and sound. The angel turns the lamp beside the bed on and sits Dean down on the edge of the mattress while he shrugs out of his trenchcoat and bustles around the room. 

Dean sits there, inhaling and exhaling slow and deep, biting the inside of his cheek to ward off tears. Cas returns with a wet wash cloth and the first aid kit Dean keeps in his bathroom. He sets them down on the nightstand and goes to take Dean’s shirt off, but Dean just shakes his head again, placing his hand over Cas’ to stop him. Cas gives him a questioning look, and Dean needs to say _something_. “I don’t deserve this, Cas. It’s Christmas, and I’m sitting here getting blood all over your hands and—” Dean swallows hard, voice breaking before he can continue. It takes a minute for him to find his voice again, but he needs to finish. “And you should be up partying in Heaven or relaxing or whatever angels do to celebrate Christmas, not this, not with a fuck up like me.” Dean rubs viciously at his eyes, scrubbing at the budding tears. He’s never been good about talking about feelings, and the fact he’s actually tried to give a voice to the shit he’s feeling makes him feel like he swallowed barbed wire. He can’t look at Cas, can’t do anything but hunch over and grit his teeth and wish he wasn’t such a sorry excuse for a man. Cas doesn’t give him the chance to remain that way for any length of time, though. 

The angel grabs Dean’s jaw, lifting his face so that his ethereal eyes are boring into Dean’s. “Dean Winchester,” Castiel growls, eyes bright and voice hard and serious. “You deserve this. You deserve everything I can give you and more. You are a treasure, you are so precious to me, and there is nowhere in the entire universe at any point in time I would rather be than right here with you, right now. Christmas doesn’t matter unless I get to spend it with _you_ , do you understand?” Castiel stares hard into his eyes, and Dean is lost in the blue, his words clicking into his head one by one and something in his chest is growing warm, unraveling. “I wish I could make you see exactly what you are, Dean, because you are everything. You are light, you are my sun and my stars. No one’s soul shines as brightly as yours does, beloved.” Cas’ voice grows soft, and he reaches forward to cradle Dean’s face between his palms. Dean can’t explain how he feels, can’t understand how the gears in his brain grind to a halt, and each one of Cas’ words sends them turning the opposite way. Something is blossoming behind his ribs, warmth flowing through him, and his heart beats faster at the raw sincerity in Cas’ eyes, the sound of it bleeding into each syllable.

“You have such a good heart, Dean. You save lives and care for your brother and I with an almost religious devotion. Your soul radiates with your goodness. Believe me, my adored, when I tell you, _you deserve this_.” Castiel gazes at him intently and Dean feels those tears finally spilling past his waterline, but can’t find it in himself to be ashamed and hide his face. Cas spoke with such conviction, Dean could feel it, all of it, and for once, he believes. He closes his eyes, exhaling shakily, and Cas pushes him gently down so he’s lying on his back. “Now, let me take care of you.” Cas orders, his voice much quieter now. Dean opens his eyes, reaching up to kiss Castiel briefly before the angel starts to divest him of his clothing. By the time Dean is in his boxers, Cas bends over him and starts to wipe away the blood at his lip and on the wound on the top of his head, touch so light and precise it doesn’t cause Dean any pain at all. The hunter watches as Cas works, watches him delicately trace the edge of the cut on his lip with a q-tip dipped in antiseptic and then dab at the spot with another clean wash cloth before smearing on a coat of vaseline to seal it. With most of his mojo gone, Cas has had to learn how to heal without the help of his grace, and he does it with the ease of a practiced doctor. 

Only unlike a doctor, Cas’ hands linger, caressing Dean’s cheekbone as he reaches up to wash out the cut on Dean’s scalp. His touch is reverent, so focused and careful, like Dean is something fragile and worth paying special attention to. It leaves the hunter feeling dizzy with the amazing sense of what if feels like to be truly loved, to be cherished. Only Castiel can make Dean feel like this, make him believe that he is truly worth every second of these gentle touches. Once it’s clean, he dabs on more antiseptic, then tosses the first aid kit onto the ground and leans over to skim his lips over the bruised skin of Dean’s shoulder. Cas pulls back the blankets and lays him down with his head cushioned by the pillows. He makes short work of stripping down to his own white boxers and slides in beside Dean, pulling the blankets up to their necks and turning off the lamp. Dean’s whole body is humming with warmth and this peculiar yet incredible feeling, all from Cas’ touch and words. He curls up against him, entangling their legs and coiling his arms around the angel’s waist, and Cas pulls him closer yet, kissing his forehead and tilting his chin back to kiss him deeply on the lips. Dean opens immediately for Cas and their tongues slide together, Dean sucking at Cas’ bottom lip while the angel hums into the kiss, hand curling at the back of his neck.

“I love you,” Dean whispers, his lips brushing over Cas’, breath hot on his skin. There’s so much he wishes he could say to him, so much he wants to communicate through those three words. It’s always been their thing to say infinitely more through looks and touches, but those three words are the one exception to the rule. Cas kisses Dean again, tongue tracing the curve of his lips before he moves his mouth down to kiss Dean’s collarbones.   
“As I love you, my adored.” Cas replies, sliding his hand over Dean’s arm to twine their fingers together.   
“Merry Christmas, Cas. You have no idea how glad I am that you’re here,” he declares, rubbing circles on the back of Cas’ hand with his thumb. His voice shakes with the sincerity behind the statement, but he means it with all his heart.   
“I was serious when I told you there isn’t anywhere else or with anyone different I’d rather spend it. I made sure to leave in time to spend it with my everything,” Castiel murmurs, giving him another kiss as Dean smiles, heart swelling in his chest. The two lay wrapped up in each other as they gradually slip off into sleep, Dean with his shoulders feeling feather-light for the first time in ages.


End file.
